Forget the scolding for the milk
that curdled in the jar, the whites
of eggs that would not rise—
Forget the lapse in weather
that made you, too, forget the time
beneath the haze of heat and open windows—
The water skims and purls,
retreating after it washes over rocks.
That is the rhythm of all approach:
that halting, uncertain, sideways track
toward what the heart wants so very much
not to frighten away with its need—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.